


Ashes of Youth

by silentlagoon



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Arranged Marriage, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Identity Issues, Original Characters - Freeform, Teen!Dís, Thorin doesn't know how to handle adolescents
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-22
Updated: 2013-11-30
Packaged: 2017-12-30 04:51:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1014304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silentlagoon/pseuds/silentlagoon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thorin never expected to be left to hold together the remnants of Erebor's population alone and he certainly didn't imagine having to do so whilst trying to take care of an adolescent sister hell-bent on making mountains out of mole-hills.</p>
<p>Meanwhile, Dís just wishes she could forget about being a princess and run off with the baker's son.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Those left behind

**Author's Note:**

> I have been away from fiction for a long time so this is a bit sketchy. Comments are very much appreciated (please be kind, I'm a delicate flower!).

When the ravens came, they descended like a black cloud over the Blue Mountains. Hundreds of birds with the first missives received since the warriors had set out for Moria stained the orange of first light like spilt ink.

Dís stood on the balcony watching the dark swarm overhead. Their presence must have meant the fighting was done which she supposed was good; but she couldn’t help notice that despite their vast number they were so quiet. Everything was too silent and still.

“Princess?”

Dís jumped at the sudden noise. She turned to find Lord Brokkr standing behind her. In his hand was a small scroll, discoloured from its journey. She stared at it, desperate for news but also dreading the nature of the tidings. There were so many ravens and it was _so_ _quiet_. Something just felt . . . off.

“Who is that for?” she asked.

“It is addressed to you, your highness. The ravens will not deliver the rest until this is read,” he closed the space between them and pressed the scroll into her hands, “Best do it quick.” He advised with a sad but sweet smile.

Gentleness and understanding was always Brokkr’s strong point. In truth, he was the sole reason Dís had not gone mad with worry in the months separated from her kin. When he had first made the suggestion to her father that he should take her into his home she had sulked and pouted at the prospect at being left with only a boring, old dwarf for company. She could not have been more wrong. Brokkr was old, yes, but boring he was certainly not. His humour was bright and quick and _rude_! Many were the nights that Dís had been left clutching her sides from laughing in disbelief at his bawdiness.

She gave his hand a brief squeeze before taking the scroll and turning away. The familiar seal of Durin that she had seen so often on her grandfather’s ring was stamped in wax on the parchment but it looked so wrong. Wonky and unclear. As if her grandfather had slipped as he marked the wax. She broke the seal and unfurled the paper.

_We are victorious but Moria’s evils are beyond our army._

_Many are dead or dying._

_Grandfather, Frerin and Father are lost to us._

_Be strong, sister. I will return as swiftly as I can._

_Your ever loving brother, Thorin._

No. It made no sense. It couldn’t be. Yet this was most definitely Thorin’s hand. The King was dead; her father was dead and Frerin … not dear Frerin. She screamed and could not stop. The hand that she had clasped over her mouth did nothing to quieten the howls that rose from her throat, unbidden and harsh. They echoed in her head and tangled into the burning tears that would not stop and oh, how she ached. She felt sick. Hot. Empty. They were all gone. They promised they’d come back. They’d all promised.

Dís felt gentle arms guide her away from the balcony and the prying eyes that were glued to the direction of the piercing yells that cut through the silence like knives. “Hush, princess. Hush, now. Deep breaths.” Brokkr held her against his chest letting her sob into his tunic.

The cacophony that came next was deafening. The wings of hundreds of ravens. Their cries as they swooped down on the mountain echoed down every street, each hall and home. Then came the screaming. The sound of grief wrenched from fresh-made widows and parents and children and cousins and friends. Wails and prayers hurled out to Mahal to bring them back. To take anything. But not them! Not their loved ones who had left with such hope and defiance in their hearts. Strong hearts that would never beat again.

The mountain sang with sadness and yet the young princess only had ears for the gentle voice saying over and over:

“Hush. Hush, now.”


	2. Chapter 2

Thorin had always been a serious dwarf; though he could hardly be blamed for that. He had duties to uphold as prince and heir to the throne. Though he had revelled in the moments when he could just laugh and joke with his siblings he was mostly required to put on a solemn yet polite and dignified face for the good of the kingdom.

The Thorin who marched his people back to the Blue Mountains remained as serious as Dís remembered; only now he looked older and frayed. The dark shadows under his eyes and the tight line of his lips gave him the countenance of their father and it took all her strength for Dís not to run past the main gates and cling to him as she had done when she was younger.

The group of dwarves that returned was so small. She had not fully registered the true enormity of their loss in Thorin’s brief words. To see it, to see who remained out of the thousands that had left, who dragged their feet in an uneven drudge behind their young king; to see their dull eyes and listen to their silence was proof that the people of Erebor were crushed. Decimated and defeated.

Brokkr placed a firm hand on Dís’ shoulder and whispered in her ear:

“Go to him. Don’t run, remember what we discussed. You must be strong for them. You must be brave, little princess.”

She gave a brief nod and set off. She concentrated on acting the part, recalling the very few lessons she had had on proper decorum and the advice she had received more recently from Brokkr. _Purposeful steps, not too wide or too small. A straight back and raised head. Sedate pace and impassive expression. Let the people see that you could carry their burdens on your shoulders. Show your them your courage and compassion._

She met her brother just beyond the gate. He dropped his pack and weapons to clasp her forearms and gently pressed their foreheads together. He was filthy. Covered in dried blood and mud and dust from the road. His hair was matted and his beard had been shorn. He stank of stale sweat and damp but she did not care. All that mattered was that he was home. He was here. She gripped his arms tighter, feeling a steady pulse that was proof that he was alive. That he truly had come back to her, as he had promised.

He drew away from their embrace to turn to the remains of his army. “I’m sorry that I have no more words for you,” he began, his voice croaky as if he had not used it for some time, “I am sorry that we must return here in such circumstances but my words will do nothing for us now. Go to your families. Rest.”

The crowd began to disperse, beginning their weary trek to the foot of the mountain, where makeshift tents provided shelter. It had been a temporary solution concocted by Thrór and the clan leaders of Ered Luin. They simply could not accommodate everyone inside the mountain, let alone feed them; so the cloth village had been erected, and small plots of land were ploughed for root vegetables to see them through. There was hardly ever any meat but at least the meals were regular now, unlike they had been on the road.

Of course some dwarves had married inhabitants of Ered Luin. In the months that the warriors had been away, there had been many weddings. It was well known that some families had even taken payment for their daughters’ hands, but no-one talked of it. It was shameful enough that they had been brought so low.

When all backs had been turned to them, Dís grasped hold of her brother’s hand and tugged him toward the mountain.

“Come, Thorin. You need to rest too.”

“I’m going down there,” he told her, looking towards the cloth shelters, “I can’t stay here whilst my people must remain outside.”

Dís tugged his hand again with more insistence.

“You need to wash, Thorin and sleep. I think the elders want to see you. I heard Brokkr talking about it and you can’t go like this. Please. Just for a little while. Please.”

He sighed in resignation and slung his pack over his shoulder. With his free arm, he tucked his little sister into his side and kissed her forehead.

“ You are well, namadîth?” 

“Sort of. I wasn’t at first and then it was better and now . . . I don’t know. But I’m so glad you’re back, Thorin.”

She flung her arms around his middle and muffled her tears into his chest.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t bring them all back, Dís.” His voice was quiet and on the verge of breaking.

“It’s not your fault,” she sniffed, “It’s not your fault.”

A small cough snapped them both to attention. Brokkr had come out to meet them along with two members of his household staff who were already relieving Thorin of his belongings.

“Your majesty, if you’ll follow me, I have a room prepared for you. My household can have a bath and hot food ready for you at your convenience.”

“Thank you, Brokkr. And for taking care of my sister, you have my deepest graditude.”

“Ah, no need. She’s a delight. Now if you’d care to follow me, we can’t hang about on the doorstep all day.”

Dís tugged on Thorin’s sleeve and stood on tip-toe to whisper to him as they walked.

“It’s weird, them calling you ‘majesty’.”

“I know.”

* * * * *

Only when he had gone to wash had Dís relinquished her hold on her brother. All throughout dinner she kept capturing his hand or nudging his shoulder, as if seeking reassurance that he was not going to suddenly vanish on her. Now she was sound asleep, curled up in his lap as he sat, smoking a pipe with Brokkr by the fireplace. He shifted slightly hoping that she might wake and put herself to bed but instead her hands fisted themselves tighter into his tunic. He huffed in defeat.

“It’s just her age,” Brokkr assured him, “She doesn’t know quite what to do with herself, she’s just unsure is all.”

“Was she … I mean, how was she, when she found out about . . . everything?”

Brokkr took a long drag of his pipe.

“Not good. For a while she wouldn’t eat or sleep. Just sat out on the balcony. Waiting. I think she was worried that you wouldn’t make it back. Though she’d never say so. It will get better, you know. The pain. I won’t lie, it will always be a part of you, but it will lessen over time. For the both of you. And that is something to cherish. You are not alone; a small victory.”

It did not feel that way to Thorin. He knew the old dwarf meant well, but how could it lessen? How could he ever forget the image of his grandfather’s head being waved about like an amusement? How could the pain of seeing his brother lying trampled and disfigured amongst the corpses ever dull enough for him to ever breathe easy again? He did not even know if he _should_ grieve for his father!

“I don’t mean to put upon you more than I have already, but I would be very thankful if you could watch Dís tomorrow when I meet with the elders?” he asked, suddenly feeling exceptionally tired.

“Of course. Though if I may be so bold, you really should take another with you. Someone you trust. I recall that lad, Balin, was it?”

Thorin nodded.

“Mmm. Yes he has a good head on him. Take him, just as an extra pair of ears of course.”

“Of course.”

A companionable silence fell and soon, lulled by the soft crackling of logs in the hearth and the warmth of his sister, the king under the mountain fell asleep.


	3. Chapter 3

“Dís! Dís get back here!” Thorin yelled as the blur that was his younger sister darted past him to her chambers and slammed the door shut.

“No!”

“Dís!”

“NO!”

Thorin sighed rubbed his hand over his eyes. As if his life wasn’t stressful enough without the adolescent princess deciding that every little thing that didn’t go her way merited grand theatrics. He gently rapped on the closed door.

“Dís,” he called as soothingly as he could, albeit through gritted teeth, “I really need you to come out now. Just talk to me please, Dís.”

“I’m not wearing it.” Came the brusque reply.

“It’s just a dress.”

“It’s stupid. I’ll look ridiculous! You can’t expect me to go out in public like that, Thorin. It’ll ruin my life!”

“I think you’re being a bit extreme and very selfish. This is important, Dís.”

“It’s just a merchants and miners meeting, Thorin. They happen literally all the time.”

Thorin, realising that she was not going to open the door anytime soon settled himself on the stone floor, back against the door. Part of him knew that this was not her burden to bear; that she was too young to know how tenuous their sanctuary in the Blue Mountains was but who else could he talk to? Frerin was dead and their father might as well be for all they knew. Thorin was left with the responsibility of his people and he had never felt more alone.

“It’s a bit more than that this time,” he confessed, “There’s been a bit of conflict between our people and those native to the Blue Mountains. Some of them are of the belief we’re invading, taking work from those who need it. The elders of the clans are meeting to try and smooth things over before they escalate and the presence of the line of Durin has been requested. As you and I are the only ones left we can’t escape it I’m afraid.”

There was a lengthy silence before a rather put out huff was heard from the chamber.

“I still don’t know why I have to wear the dress.”

“It’s how we present ourselves. We are royalty, you know; even if it really doesn’t feel like it anymore.” He finished quietly.

After a time of thick silence she heard him rise and followed the sound of boots as he descended the stairs. She cracked open her door and slid out, creeping across to Thorin’s room. Hanging on top of the mirror, so that it was half obscured, was the dress. That hideous _thing_. Dís hated it. It had been years since she had worn anything but trousers. She really didn’t want to but her brother had sounded so defeated. He had pleaded with her. Thorin never did that.

Gathering her courage she began wriggling out of her trousers and tunic, leaving them in a crumpled heap on the floor. She chanced a glance at her reflection. Her frame looked so unappealing to her. Too awkward. Not enough muscle. Her hips had begun to widen but the rest of her body hadn’t caught up with the change; her breasts really needed binding now too. Sparring was harder now, even running was made difficult! She knew there were ways to stop them moving about so much from snippets of conversations she had overheard by loitering near the fabric stalls at the market. Dwarrowdams for some reason seemed to congregate there. After listening to their chatter she had tried once or twice with bandages but she had done something wrong and they came loose almost immediately after she had tied the ends.

She sighed. There was nothing to be done about it really. Who could she ask about _bindings_ of all things? _Thorin?_ Not a chance. No. She’d just have to learn to live with it and pray that they did not get any bigger. She whipped the dress off its hanger and wrestled her way into it. She could not tie the laces at the back herself so opted for just tugging on them so that the dress would not fall off her shoulders. It wasn’t all that bad, she supposed. It was . . . nice. A simple blue dress with black trim that would have looked fairly pleasant on the right body, just not hers. She let the laces she had been holding fall and the dress puddled around her feet. Dís snatched up her tunic and trews, hurriedly throwing them on before climbing out of Thorin’s bedroom window and scaling the wall until her feet touched solid ground (it was a well-used escape route). Blinking back tears and pushing the image of the horrid dress to the back of her mind, Dís set off towards the market place.

It was always the same after she had had a fight with Thorin or found herself upset. She would sneak out to the market and somehow always find herself in front of the bakery. Shortly after the new houses of Ered Luin had been constructed at the foothills of the mountain, the bakery had lured her in with the smell of fresh bread and the sight of sticky buns piled high in wicker baskets.

Whenever she felt sad or alone it was the bakery that gave her some momentary warmth and comfort that could lift her spirits. However, as the years went by she found herself less tempted by the pastries and instead Díscovered the company of the baker’s apprentice, Vestri.

He was her elder by only a few years and from the first day they had met they had become fast friends. She had met him after a particularly fiery argument with Thorin concerning her weapon’s training (she had wanted to gloss over axes and go straight to the war hammer; he had wanted her to learn to sew). She had marched into the bakery and bought four sticky buns all for herself, muttering and frowning as she stuffed one into her mouth the moment it was handed to her. Vestri had teased her mercilessly for that, stating that she looked like an angry rodent. Anyone else would have received a punch in the face for such behaviour, but the way in which his eyes had glimmered and his mouth quirked up at one side made it clear that his words were harmless. So instead of breaking his nose, she rolled her eyes, tutted and stuffed another bun in her mouth.

She turned into the street where the bakery stood, picking up her pace, knowing that seeing Vestri would make her feel better. He could always make her smile. As she pushed open the door, a warm rush of sweetly scented air hit her. Vestri stood behind the counter, idly making patterns in some spilt flour. He grinned as he looked up to see Dís standing in front of him.

“Hello, Rat-face! Come to eat your feelings again?” he jested.

“Oh shut up. Got anything special in?”

He bid her wait for a minute and dashed off to the back of the shop, returning with a jam tart that was still warm from the oven. Dís took a bite of the sweet, sticky treat and relaxed. Jam tarts and golden haired baker boys were definitely preferable to brothers and dresses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, teeny tiny time jump here. In my previous chapters Dís is about the human equivalent to ten or eleven years old; in this chapter she's around thirteen.


End file.
